Story of the Waitress
by disturbinglyprofound
Summary: Because if he were to kill her, he would regret it for the rest of his life. [Rated for swearing, epithets and a brief lemony scene.]
1. Premise

Disclaimer: I do not own_ Inglourious Basterds._

Summary: As Col. Landa lives out his "Jew Hunter" moniker and chases the Inglourious Basterds, he has a few run-ins with a young French woman that culminate in the emotionally-charged murder of Bridget von Hammersmark. But the story doesn't end there. Rated for a short sex scene and a few swear words.

**Story of the Waitress**

**Chapter 1: Premise**

Maxium's was ironically the brainchild of a young Jewish girl who enjoyed cooking and who wanted to open her own restaurant as a dream career. It was fortunate that she died long before the Nazis began to occupy her beloved France, and before her descendants were forced to sell the place to friends, non-Jewish French individuals who were as accepting as could be, but who were forced to keep their nature a secret.

Still, they made sure to employ as many down-on-their-luck non-Aryans as they could, and while some of the Nazis complained about the service, they did nothing about it – the food they were served was what kept them coming back, after all.

Colonel Hans Landa was quite partial to the strudel, particularly with a spoonful of crème, though he never spoke so frankly about it out loud. He had been stationed in France for a matter of months, along with some of the other high-ranking Nazis, and had only just discovered the little gem that was Maxium's in the heart of the city.

As he ate, he reluctantly tuned into the conversation Goebbels was having with his supposed translator, though it was obvious – to him, at least – that the two had a relationship that far extended the boundaries of dialogue. He could fairly assume that under the table, Goebbels' hand was travelling further than it ought to, especially in such civilized company. But when Goebbels made a joke he thought was funny, Landa laughed, joined in, threw a few witty remarks into the banter.

He did as he ought to, considering the company that he kept.

"Mademoiselle Mimieux," said Goebbels, referring to the young woman whose cinema was to become the meeting place for most of the high-ranking Nazis, "has made quite an impression on young Zoller, has she not? But tsk, tsk, she does not appear to be interested."

"I wonder why," said his interpreter, her job moot in a room of German-speakers. "Perhaps she is not looking at the moment."

"Ha," Goebbels barked out. "The girl would be most fortunate to even fall at his feet – a mere opera house owner, and she –"

"I don't believe that's it," said Landa. "Have you met her projectionist?"

For all the power he held, the influence, Goebbels was not the quickest man. Landa had found himself growing impatient with him many a time.

"The projectionist?" repeated Goebbels. "The Negro?"

"Yes," said Landa. "The Negro."

"But she is a wonderful girl," said Francesca, surprised. "Why on earth –"

"Terribly sorry to interrupt," came a new voice, "sirs, madam, but I must inquire as to your meals. Are they satisfactory?" Standing before them, peeking into the shielded room, was one of the restaurant owners, a slim blonde with rosy lips and a sweet disposition. Unfortunately for many of the men who frequented the restaurant, she was married to another of the owners.

"Quite," said Landa, charismatic as always. "Compliments to the chef, may I add."

"Thank you," she said, smiling.

"I would appreciate a more attractive waitress," called out Goebbels, laughing uproariously. Francesca patted his shoulder, looking the other way with an amused roll of the eyes. The Gestapo major, who remained silent throughout their conversations, smiled indulgently. The rest of the table obliged and joined in the raucousness. Landa raised a brow and kept his amusement to a minimum.

"I will have our most attractive come and clear your plates, then," she said, her smile tightening. Then she left, closing the curtains a little more harshly than was required. Goebbels, too wrapped up in the conversation he was to launch into, did not notice. Landa did.

"I have seen, in this establishment," said Goebbels, "a number of Negroes. Our own waiter was a Negro. Ugh." He took a swig of wine. "Truly disgusting."

"_Excusez-moi_."

The Gestapo major held open the curtain to let in what appeared to be their new waitress. Dressed in a demure uniform of skirt, blouse, and heels, she was prim and proper. But her beauty wasn't what drew all eyes in the room to her. It was instead the smooth mocha tone of her skin.

"I was told to collect your plates," she said in fluent French. "Are you all finished?"

Landa watched the reactions of the rest of the table. Faces ranged from an expression of shock to disgust to open contemplation. He wasn't immune to the female form, but he didn't often share his true opinion on these sorts of things.

"_You _are the most attractive waitress?" said Goebbels in German. Out of respect for the girl, Francesca didn't translate.

"I apologize, young lady," she said, handing the girl her empty dish and spoon. Graciously, the waitress took it and, with others, lined them all up on a tray. Landa watched her fingers work, methodical and matter-of-fact. She had been doing her job for a long time; perhaps it was the only sort of position she could land herself in at the moment.

She let herself out without much of a goodbye, but the lingering eyes on her arse didn't care much for dialogue.

"What are you all looking at?" Goebbels demanded. "That Negro?"

"Negroes are of African descent," said Landa patiently. "She does not appear to be."

"She is still coloured," said Goebbels. "Filth. Unworthy."

"Perhaps," conceded Landa, inclining his head slightly. Francesca lit a cigarette.

* * *

"Why on earth didn't you tell me I would be serving Nazis?" hissed Mischa, when she returned to the kitchen. "What if they had asked for my papers?"

Madame Broussard smiled hesitantly. "I apologize, dear. I don't know why I obeyed Goebbels' request. I suppose it was nerves." She rubbed Mischa's back comfortingly. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Yes," said Mischa, sighing, "but it was in German."

"You really ought to learn the language," said Madame, "while the Nazis occupy France."

"Then I would be caught between a rock and a hard place," said Mischa. "Either I learn the language and conform to their take-over-the-world doctrine, or I don't and remain in the dark. I don't think he was saying anything nice, anyway. The woman sitting beside him didn't translate."

Madame blinked. "Sometimes, you are far too intelligent for your own good, Mischa. Go."

"Oh, no, I cannot. I promised Marcel I would show him my jazz routine today," said Mischa. "In case it is ever brought back."

"Alright, darling. Be careful," warned Madame.

* * *

Marcel was a friend of Mischa's from school, when they were still allowed to attend. They had not been given the opportunity to see each other for quite a while, what with their respective careers and the suspiciousness of a couple of coloured people on the streets, but once she had been to the movie theatre at which he worked, reconnected with him, and met his girlfriend Shosanna Dreyfus, a Jewish girl who had escaped a massacre that had killed the rest of her family, a good friendship bloomed between them once again.

Shosanna, apprehensive, which Mischa expected, disclosed her true identity a few months into it, but was quickly rewarded with praise as to her bravery when it came to working out in the open.

"I find the whole 'master race' belief ridiculous," said Mischa over a shared dinner one night. "You have blonde hair and blue eyes, exactly what Hitler supposedly wants. I don't see what your personal beliefs have to do with it."

"You don't have to convince me," said Shosanna wearily. Marcel chuckled and massaged her shoulder.

After that dinner was when Mischa first introduced the concept of jazz music to them. She prefaced it with a warning about its illegality, but they brushed it aside and instead joined her in dance.

"I've been teaching myself," she explained, "with my parents' old tapes. Shall I teach you, also?"

"Yes, please," said Marcel, grinning.

* * *

And now, they were a trio who weren't so much a trio as a couple and a third wheel, but Mischa could understand that, she supposed. While news of a troupe called the Inglourious Basterds plagued most of France, with tales of their Nazi-scalping, take-no-prisoners attitude spreading like a virus, the three misfits spoke of nothing but their own lives.

Secretly, Mischa kept up with the news, waiting for them to show up in their village, hopefully to purge it of the Nazis who so often traipsed through, bringing their bigoted, terrifying views with them. Though Mischa no longer cried herself to sleep – she had heard too many stories of the concentration camps to tear up every time it happened – she hated listening to them relate the events as if they were happy and worthy of celebration. During her time at Maxium's, Mischa had seen the worst of humanity.

Though she worked in public, had a job that required a fair bit of interaction with Nazis, she did not have the proper documentation, or rather, much of it was falsified. Usually, Madame Broussard was there to validate her story, but alone, when she walked home in the night, or perhaps even as she cut across the street to the restaurant each morning, Mischa was gripped with fear. Fear that once more, she would be caught, her papers discredited, and she herself would become another horror story to be told around the table at Maxium's.

The last time it had happened, she had been assisting a young French boy who had fallen off his scooter and whose parents were too far off to notice. She didn't have any experience with mechanics, but was managing to figure out the simple device that had malfunctioned, when she had been accosted by three Nazi soldiers. At that time, she wasn't yet aware of the German occupation of France – she thought that they were warded off – and was so shocked upon their demanding her documentation that she had had to come up with a ridiculous excuse.

The boy defended her, surprisingly, saying in a childish, innocent tone that she lived down the road from him, that he could show them her house and meet her parents, who at that time, had been alive. They didn't die until 1941, one year into the German occupation, and it was because of the car accident they had gotten into, that resulted in her mother's death.

Her father was arrested by Nazi soldiers, who quickly gathered that it had been on purpose, her death, and shot him point-blank – vigilante justice. When Mischa found out what had happened, she had taken up arms, prepared to die for their names so long as she could kill the Nazi soldier who had killed her father, but was stopped by Madame Broussard.

Now, her anger burbled innocuously beneath the surface, not quite ready to explode again, but in the background. If confronted with the soldier who had shot her father, now, Mischa thought that she would bring him to justice, once the Allies won the War. _If _they won the War. Unlike World War I, which she had studied extensively in hopes of gaining more insight into this one, there was no clear winner. Hitler was intelligent, Germany was well-armed, and Europe was being overtaken by a torrent of Aryan-believers.

* * *

"Shosanna, I saw you at the restaurant a few days ago."

When it was mentioned, the petite blonde lifted her head from the soup she was drinking. "I was escorted to Maxium's for a chat."

Mischa raised a brow. "What sort of chat?"

"That soldier – Zoller – convinced Goebbels to hold the premiere of his new film at our theatre," the other woman shrugged. Mischa's eyes widened.

"And you didn't have a choice," she said emphatically. Shosanna shook her head.

"But that isn't all." She gathered some broth in her spoon, but didn't lift it to her lips. Mischa surmised from this that she had, in some way, been frightened. Usually, her appetite was healthy and illustrious.

"I saw that you were speaking with one of the soldiers," said Mischa. "Well, rather, he was speaking and you were still. Was he –?"

"The soldier that ordered my family's deaths? _Yes._" And with that one word, the dam broke.

Mischa held Shosanna as she cried. And when Marcel returned later from his errands, their group was complete. Each of them had lost something because of this war, because of who the Germans had allowed to move into power. All three of them became orphans long before their time, forced to rely on themselves when they were unsure of who in the world cared.

When Shosanna recovered enough to retell the story of the afternoon, her expression changed from that of raw grief to that of a fear similar to what she experienced four years ago, when the cruel Colonel Hans Landa first confronted her. Her sudden departure from the theatre in the form of a pseudo-kidnapping, to the five minutes of torture she shared with the man who killed her parents, over a plate of German strudel, to her return, Shosanna recounted everything.

Both Mischa and Marcel listened intently, and it was clear from the look on his face to the anger that boiled within her that they were ready to exact revenge, if not for themselves, then for Shosanna, who they both cared for deeply.

"Thank you," she said after, quietly, revealing the softer side of her often harsh personality, "for listening."

Her friends didn't acknowledge the gratitude.

"I think I served them – that group you spoke of. Landa was dressed in his S.S. uniform, was he not?" said Mischa. Shosanna nodded. "And Goebbels is distinguishable from anyone, with that nasally voice and harsh accent. He was with that French translator – Mondino?"

"Right," said Shosanna. "And the head of the Gestapo and two black dogs."

Marcel's mouth hitched on one side. "Strange, isn't it – Nazis with innocent dogs."

Shosanna returned the smile with a wry one of her own. "Innocent – I'm sure they have been trained to kill on command."

"Are you truly alright, Shosanna?" asked Mischa with concern, looking to Marcel for quiet confirmation. "If I had been in your place, I would have certainly had a difficult time choosing between murdering Landa and –"

"Losing myself completely?" said Shosanna, eyes tearing once more. "You have no idea, Mischa. It was awful. _Horrible." _

Mischa nodded sympathetically. "How long are they going to be here?"

"Tomorrow," said Shosanna. "That is when I am to be hosting their little premiere."

Marcel snorted. "They are coming later today, are they not?"

"They want to watch a film, at the theatre itself," nodded Shosanna, "to make sure it is adequate." Her mouth twisted.

Mischa guessed that, despite her obvious disgust towards the idea of it, Shosanna was willing to comply with their orders, undoubtedly because she was planning to carry out her own little surprises. In addition, like Mischa's initial reaction to her parents' deaths, it was going to involve murder the likes of which the public would be unable to ignore.

Shosanna was rocked to the core by what had happened to her family, far more than Mischa was, at least by outward glance. Where Mischa and Marcel had made peace with their personal tragedies, Shosanna was committed to seeing revenge through, and it was clear that she was going to use this premiere as a method of doing it.

"How attached are you to the theatre?" asked Mischa, carefully. Shosanna blinked in apparent surprise.

"At the moment, not very," she answered. Clearly, Shosanna did not trust her enough to tell her the plans she had for the Nazis, but Mischa had already drawn a conclusion from her personal inferences.

"I see," she said nonchalantly, and Marcel could only look back and forth between the two women with confusion – confusion that wouldn't be explained until much later, after the showing, when he and his love were alone in the foyer, when they could freely discuss their sordid, final plans.

Plans that would, as they would discover later, involve more deaths than they imagined.

* * *

**Three things:**

**1) Just a note about the epithets and such that are thrown around. They are characteristic of the time period we are presented with (both in terms of WWII and Tarantino's ideas), not my personal views. **

**2) The fact that people of the non-Caucasian persuasion were allowed to work in public was posited by IB itself (Marcel the projectionist) so I simply extended it a little to allow restaurant workers.**

**3) Landa as a character was very difficult to write (as I'm sure fanfic writers who've attempted are aware) so if he sounds a little OOC, please let me know. I tried my best to make him authentic and do him justice. **

**Aside from the aforementioned, I hope you enjoyed - thanks for reading!**

**- dp**


	2. Plan

Disclaimer: I do not own _Inglourious Basterds._

**Story of the Waitress**

**Chapter 2: Plan**

"I find it interesting, Madame, that you have a coloured girl in your employ," said Dieter Hellstrom.

They stood outside of the kitchen doors, long after the others had left, and Brossard crossed two slightly shaking arms. "She was in need of a job," was all the older woman would say.

Hellstrom shifted his position. If one compared his movements to Colonel Hans Landa, they would notice considerable similarities. But where Landa's methods were subtle, indirect, and highly distressing, Hellstrom only came off as irritating, a pesky nuisance. Brossard was no less suspicious, however.

"I see," he said lightly. "Would it be too much trouble for me to see her papers?"

Brossard watched him warily, noted the determination in his light blue gaze, and nodded briefly. "A minute, please."

She disappeared in the kitchen. When five minutes had passed and he received no further instruction from the Madame, Hellstrom rapped on the door with less patience than he meant. "Madame," he said briskly. "You will be arrested if those papers are not produced within the next few seconds."

The door opened immediately after, and Brossard appeared once more, brandishing several documents. "I apologize, Herr Hellstrom," she said. "One of the cooks was burning the crème brulée." She laughed slightly.

He did not. Instead, he opened the papers and read them over carefully. Everything appeared to be in order, but since being in the company of Colonel Landa, he had reason to believe that what was assumed was not necessarily what was true or real. "Is the girl still here?"

"Yes, I believe so," said Brossard. "Would you like me to –?"

"Bring her out here," barked Hellstrom. "Quickly."

"Yes, monsieur," she said feebly, stepping inside once more. This time, she was speedy, and in the doorway stood the attractive but coloured waitress that had taken his dish.

"Mischa Découdrais," he confirmed. She nodded her assent, appearing perfectly calm. But appearances were often deceiving.

"How long have you been in the employ of Madame Brossard?" he questioned of her.

"Two years," she answered.

"What did you do before then?"

"I went to school," she said, and once more, her tone betrayed no emotion. She was almost unnervingly civil, and that made him suspicious.

"Which school?"

"St. Marie's Patron," said the girl. She was fixing him with a stare, however. A stare that almost dared him to poke a hole in her armour. He didn't like that stare.

"Where are your parents?" he demanded, allowing her politeness to affect him. Landa would not be impressed.

"Dead," she said simply.

"And you are so unaffected by it?"

"They were killed in an automobile accident," she replied. "I have made my peace with it."

"What were the nationalities of your parents?" he tried.

"French," she said promptly, but not so promptly that it sounded staged. Either she was a damn good actress, or she was telling the truth. "They were born here, but once the government building was set on fire, their certificates were lost."

Convenient. "I see," he said, somewhat inelegantly. "Fine, mademoiselle."

Ever-so-slightly, one of her dark brows rose. "Are you finished, monsieur?"

"I will be finished when I am ready," he snapped. "You are never to question a senior officer, or you will be arrested."

"I didn't mean to offend, monsieur," she said politely, raising her eyes in earnest. "Merely to confirm. But, if I say something further?"

He hesitated slightly, still apprehensive. "What is it?"

"I would never insult a senior officer who is so dashing in uniform," she said, lowering her gaze demurely. He was surprised by how effective it was.

"If you mean to flatter," he said gruffly, "you have been unsuccessful. I am married."

"I apologize," said Mischa, though she had seen his ring finger long before the compliment and knew no such thing. Lying bastard. "Your wife is quite lucky, then."

Hellstrom regarded her with restrained doubt. "Indeed," he said finally, handing the papers back. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," said the coloured girl with the penetrating gaze. He didn't miss the smile on her lips when she re-entered the kitchen.

But he did miss the disgusted look she threw the door after she had closed it.

* * *

Because Landa was not as familiar with France as the other German-born occupiers, he was taking up temporary residence with a lovely young mademoiselle by the name of Lisette Anabel, who, like most women who had stumbled across Landa's path, was under his spell. When Hellstrom took a trip to the quaint little house for a visit, intending to ask him about his opinion on a certain theoretical dilemma, he found the man smoking his almost ridiculously large pipe, sitting at a table in the dark inside, while his mistress hung clothes to dry in nothing more than a thin nightdress. Her blonde tresses were long and curly; when she turned to look at him, smiling prettily, her green eyes shone. She was the epitome of 'perfect German bride.' And yet, Landa was inside, unaffected, aloof.

"Good afternoon, Herr Hellstrom," she said politely, curtsying as he approached the house. He nodded in response, tipped his hat, and asked if the Colonel was in.

"Yes," answered Lisette, pouting slightly, her French as swirling and innocently seductive as her German, which he heard her speak only with Landa. "But he is busy."

"Ah," said Hellstrom, nodding. "Would you mind if I entered, anyway?"

"Go ahead," she smiled. "But be careful!"

Hellstrom wasn't used to the attentions of beautiful young women, at least with his attention to detail, his ambition, and his dedication to his career. There were a few times when he would be obligated to escort a young lady to a gathering or perhaps a quick screw, but nothing he could really call a relationship, and certainly not to the extent that Colonel Landa took his conquests. If he was known as the "Jew Hunter" by the frightened citizens of France, he was a hunter of a different sort when beautiful women were involved. For months, years even, Hellstrom had idolized Landa for the intelligence and brilliance he brought to his job, but could never succeed in replicating it.

Lisette's cottage was quite small – which brought about the question of why Landa would room with a woman of such a low standing in society, even French society. It frustrated him that he couldn't figure out the reasoning behind many of the decisions that Landa made. He hated feeling inadequate and foolish.

The front room was more than just a foyer or greeting area; it served as a kitchen, a living room, a work area. And Landa was making good use of the latter, writing out a document in his enviably neat calligraphy with smoke billowing about, casting eerie grey shadows along the wall as they were created by the uncovered sun.

"Herr Colonel," said Hellstrom respectfully, raising his hand to salute the man who had yet to acknowledge his presence. "May I come in, sir?"

They had a bit of an understanding – an animosity, but an understanding. Landa knew that he didn't have to pretend to be hospitable and charming with Hellstrom, and in return, Hellstrom repeated nothing of what he knew to others, in the process copying the behaviours of his as-yet uninformed mentor.

"Hermann," said Landa, in the German with which they were most familiar, dipping his pen back into the well of ink, turning and fixing the eyes that had terrified French families into revealing their Jewish secrets on him. "What brings you here on this fine morning?"

"I apologize for the surprise visit," said Hellstrom hurriedly, ignoring the shielded insult, "but I must ask you something, sir, if that is alright."

Landa did not discourage or encourage any further conversation.

"If you knew of a Jew who was masquerading as a legitimate citizen, but who appeared to have all the correct papers, what would you do?"

"That is an interesting question, Hermann," Landa replied, biting slightly on the mouth of his pipe. "Quite the predicament."

"Have you ever been in that sort of situation, sir?" asked Hellstrom.

"How well do you know this individual?" asked Landa instead of answering, his navy eyes lightening not due to the sun but to a bit of interest.

"Not well," Hellstrom admitted.

"Would you like something to eat, while you're here?" he continued. Hellstrom was taken aback.

"Lisette made strudel yesterday, I believe. It isn't so terrible." Landa was already standing to presumably go and retrieve it, then thought better of it and returned to his seat.

"Didn't you say the same thing about the strudel at Maxium's?" queried Hellstrom curiously.

It didn't occur to him until Landa continued to speak that he had been, with delicate, precise skill, led into a trap.

"Ah, yes, but Maxium's strudel does not have the fresh milk at their disposal that Lisette does." Landa smiled. "And even her milk pales in comparison to that of the LaPedite family nearby. Truly exquisite."

"I must go and try some, then," said Hellstrom somewhat uncomfortably. Hearing Landa wax poetic about something as simple at milk was making him uneasy.

"You must. Though be careful," he warned, "their floors are not quite sturdy."

"I will take that into consideration, Herr Colonel," said Hellstrom respectfully. "But what were you saying about the strudel?"

"At Maxium's," said Landa, standing once more, crossing over to the makeshift kitchen and opening a parcel containing three excellently made strudels, "they have a shortage of milk. It is obvious when one tastes the strudel."

"I see," said Hellstrom, waiting apprehensively.

"The girl I shared strudel with yesterday – I believe her name was Emmanuelle –" he said casually, examining the largest strudel.

"That is correct," said Hellstrom hurriedly. "Emmanuelle Mimieux."

"She hardly touched it," he tsk-tsked. "Disrespectful, but I suppose I can understand such a gesture. I imagine, as a girl from the farms, she is used to far fresher milk." He looked pensive for a moment, and while Hellstrom was practically leaping out of his seat, waiting for the surprise, he didn't stop the Colonel from his thought process.

"But sir," said Hellstrom hesitantly, "she is not from the farms. She is from the city."

"Of course, of course," said Landa absentmindedly, heaping a dollop of crème on the plated strudel. "Would you like one?" he asked.

"No – no thank you," said Hellstrom, who couldn't stomach the idea of eating at the moment. The Colonel's preoccupation with beating around the bush irritated him far too often. Perhaps that was why he could never master the skill himself. He preferred to hurt people physically, not through the subtle, destructive power of psychological manipulation.

"Then you wouldn't mind if I ate mine?" he said politely. Hellstrom nodded with stiffness in his neck.

"Sir," he mustered once more, as Landa cut into the fresh pastry with a long, sharp knife in his right hand, "there is a girl at Maxium's, a coloured girl."

Landa scooped crème onto his piece of strudel and took a large, unattractive bite. Surprisingly, however, he was perfectly clean around the mouth. "A coloured girl?" he repeated, once he was finished swallowing. "There are several coloured girls at that restaurant. Quite strange, when you consider who frequents it."

"This coloured girl was our waitress yesterday," said Hellstrom with some impatience. "I asked for her papers and they looked clean, but I was still suspicious."

"Ah," said Landa, already close to the point of finishing his enormous strudel. "That – what do the Americans call it? – that gut feeling?"

"I believe that is it, sir," agreed Hellstrom. "She seemed very peculiar to me."

"She has not been employed at Maxium's for very long, has she," said his seat partner, sitting back, nonchalant. Hellstrom didn't even have to ask how Landa had known – how he had figured it out. It was all part of the genius he so desperately admired and wished that he possessed himself.

"No, she has not," he said, somewhat relieved that Landa had revealed what he knew.

"But it also didn't take very long for her to become familiar with the customers, either," Landa commented, eyeing Hellstrom with a small smile. "She interacts well with them. Very charming girl."

"Er – yes," said Hellstrom, at a loss for words.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer some strudel?" inquired Landa once more. "Perhaps a glass of milk? Lisette could milk the cows, if you so required it."

"No, no, that's fine," said Hellstrom quickly. "I don't need anything to eat at the moment."

Landa put down his fork and knife. "If you insist," he said amiably. "But Lisette is quite talented."

"I'm sure she is," said Hellstrom, not quite listening.

"As your girl is, certainly," continued Landa. "Some women have a knack for conversation. It may be unladylike at times, but it makes for interesting discussion."

"I agree," said Hellstrom.

"Mademoiselle Découdrais is excellent when it comes to current events. She is very well-informed," remarked Landa. Hellstrom's head snapped up.

"You spoke with her?" he said, trying to maintain the same nonchalance that Landa did, but was grossly unsuccessful.

"Briefly," the superior officer nodded, a slow smile beginning to emerge. "Before she was snapped up by another patron. Quite in demand."

"Right," said Hellstrom. "In demand."

"Impressive for a coloured girl," said Landa slyly. By now, Hellstrom had realized what he was dangling in front of the inferior officer's nose. His admission of the truth.

"Sir," Hellstrom choked out, "I –"

"Yes?" said Landa, smiling with just the barest hint of triumph.

* * *

Marcel and Mischa were confined to the projection room for the period of time it took to mask the formerly elegant, sparse lobby into a Nazi charade. They all knew what would happen if the race-hating men and women were to see a couple of coloured people pinning up the swastika, adorning the long, winding banisters with silky red cloth, or even looking them in the eye and countering themselves as equals. Instead, they focused on the reels. Shosanna had filmed some sort of clip, with Marcel, proclaiming her intentions, and had burned it onto the reel. As she assisted Marcel with mounting it on its appropriate stand, Mischa tried her best to be careful.

When they were finished, and the projection room was somewhat tidied – after all, Shosanna would be wearing a charming red dress when she came in here to change the reels one last time – Marcel and Mischa peeked through the projection hole and took in the theatre as it came together. The older, somewhat faded seats had been re-cushioned and looked far more formal than they had previously. The scent of French cigarettes had been duly replaced with that of the German – powerful, pungent, and unforgettable. From all corners of the expansive theatre, there were shouts in harsh German, some English, and occasionally, the soft-spoken French of their friend Shosanna.

"Don't you look lovely," said a new voice, distinguishing itself from all the others. Marcel stiffened when he saw Fredrick Zoller put his hands on Shosanna's petite shoulders, but she did not lean into his grip. Mischa squeezed his shoulder in comfort.

"She hates him," she whispered. "She finds him repulsive and a pest."

He relaxed somewhat at that admission.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! ~ dp**


	3. Pretence

Disclaimer: I do not own _Inglourious Basterds._

**Story of the Waitress**

**Chapter 3: Pretence**

Landa prided himself on his self-awareness, yes, but more so of his awareness of others. He knew that, from the moment young Mademoiselle Découdrais had marched into their little Nazi alcove, politely and yet, while casually masking her disdain, asked to collect their platters, that Hellstrom had taken a clear interest in her. Young love was the easiest to manipulate simply because it was so pure and simple. Oftentimes, purity was not part of the equation, but it so happened that Hellstrom had been raised in a family that valued virtue. Landa, on the other hand, had seen enough that he lived his days without consideration for such behaviours. And he could see, simply from the expression Hellstrom wore, that he was beginning to believe the same.

In the din of Lisette's multi-purpose front room, Hellstrom spilled all of his secrets and for once, was not deliberately belligerent or secretive about what he had to say. Landa did nothing but listen to Hellstrom, ask the appropriate questions, and maintained a visage of tension and subtle power over his younger conversation partner, though it became more and more obvious as the afternoon went along that what the young Head of the Gestapo had told him was nothing short of grounds for dismissal and subsequent execution. To admit such a thing – an attraction towards the abomination that der Führer was trying to obliterate – was rather like admitting that one had a secret Jewish history.

But Landa wasn't about to say anything. Instead, he smiled and nodded.

"I understand," he said to the young Dieter. "The idea that an enemy of the state could be attractive is not so preposterous."

The younger man appeared visibly relieved by Landa's comfort. He smirked.

"Of course, it is not up to me," he said lightly, "whether or not your attraction to Mademoiselle Découdrais is _preposterous_."

"What do you mean?" said Hellstrom, sounding half-angry, half-terrified out of his wits. Landa much enjoyed putting people in such uncomfortable positions.

"Only that it is difficult to keep these sorts of things… quiet."

Hellstrom's pale face was no different when compared to the papers that lay beside him.

* * *

Sometime in the dead of the night, while the three budding revenge-takers slept, a dangerous rendezvous took place at a small tavern in one of France's less esteemed towns. Lieutenant Archie Hicox was a competent man, perfectly fluent in German, but it was not his language so much as his hand gestures that caused his untimely death, and the deaths of a dozen other people who were caught up in the fallout.

He was exposed by one of the German soldiers with which he spoke, who immediately noticed when he signalled with his ring finger instead of his thumb. With that exposure came gore, blood, and the demise of several, many innocent, patrons.

In his pursuit of superior intelligence, intellect and observational abilities that rivalled those of Colonel Hans Landa's, Dieter Hellstrom had become another casualty of the Second World War.

* * *

During the investigation, which began the next morning, after much noise and drama with the police, the S.S., and the citizens who clamoured to look at the destruction and damage of the basement facilities, several things became known. The first, perhaps the most prominent, was the fact that Colonel Landa was the lead investigator. The justification for such an endeavour was obvious – he was intelligent, deductive and competent – but why such a high-ranking government official would stoop to the level of a simple shootout, albeit a shootout involving S.S. soldiers and Allied soldiers, was beyond many. It wasn't until Landa picked out several key pieces of evidence did things begin to make sense.

To begin with, a very feminine piece of clothing was found among the male corpses, aside from the very masculine female German soldier, and the conservatively dressed waitress. Landa picked up the shoe and turned it over in his hand. It was clear that it was both expensive and difficult to get on the salary of the average working person, especially with the war. In fact, he already had an idea of the heel's owner. It was only cemented with the discovery of a second piece of evidence – a napkin bearing kisses and love and signed with the very distinguishable _Bridget von Hammersmark. _

He smiled grimly. Charming, well-spoken, the epitome of a lady – and she was working for the enemy. She would have been the perfect German wife, if not for her infuriating habit of flitting around, like a butterfly, from man to man. He had met her in the past, conversed with her, and each time, she had been flighty and flirtatious. He hated women like that, even women like _her. _

But, despite his correct identification of the missing party, whose explanation would undoubtedly explain the reason for the deaths of twelve seemingly innocent people, Landa said nothing to his deputy.

Instead, he left, smiling politely at each of his underlings, carrying his briefcase and folders as if there was nothing to report. If he was going to investigate a traitor of the state of Germany, he was going to do it himself, with no one else to take the glory or the blame.

The car was just about ready for him when he reached outside, the driver waiting with an open door and a tipped hat, and Landa actually had one foot _in _the car, but then both of them stopped. In fact, _all _nearby the car paused for just a moment, from the chauffeur to the doormen to the multitude of junior detectives. And it was because of one woman.

She walked down the street without intention of garnering notice, with a nondescript hat, flat shoes, and covered body. Sunglasses, a scarf, and a quite ordinary coat attempted to shield her in an ostentatious way. But she couldn't hide her identity – at least, the identity that the Nazis of Germany and what was becoming the entirety of Europe wanted to define her by. The dark skin, the full lips, the thick, luxurious black hair all made her out to be what she really was.

An enemy of the state.

* * *

Mischa could see that there was a major investigation going on. She had even anticipated that she would be met with a large brigade of S.S. investigators and the like, by the number of cars that streamed past her on the way to the scene of the presumed crime. That was why, against her better interests, she walked just a bit faster, glanced around in a surreptitious manner without calling attention to the fact that she was not simply a French girl on her way to school or work, but rather, a coloured girl trying not to draw attention to herself.

The moment she glanced over, just to make sure that everything was going to plan, and saw the number of soldiers who had stopped their movements and were instead looking in her direction, her heart froze over. From across the street, Colonel Landa watched her only giveaway – the snapback of her head.

"Excuse me," he called politely, switching from German to French with ease, and she waited an extra beat before turning her head toward him.

"Herr Colonel?" said the driver.

"Hold the door for a moment, Hermann," he said absentmindedly, before stepping around it to meet the young mademoiselle as she crossed the street. When her dark face came into view, many of the S.S. officers surrounding them drew back in repulsion. Landa had no real animosity towards these people, and so did not react similarly. As a result, the girl's attention was drawn to him, as his was drawn to her during their first unofficial meeting.

She didn't bow, curtsy, or acknowledge his existence with even a smidgeon of respect. That alone would have given him license enough to shoot her, but he chose not to do it.

"Mademoiselle," he instead said to her. "I do believe Maxium's is closed today."

From behind the sunglasses, he expected her to pale. But she did not. "Madame Broussard required my assistance in the kitchens," she said effortlessly, the words slithering out of her as easily as they would of him. Most others looked awed. Landa was merely intrigued.

"May I see your papers?" he replied, with an equal effort – or rather, lack of it. She reached into her side satchel and produced a sheath of careful, neat papers. He read over them with the experienced eye of a hunter. It was obvious that these were fabricated; that Madame Broussard, whose strudel he so enjoyed, was, as Fraulein von Hammersmark, a traitor. But he didn't expose her.

"Well, then, Mademoiselle – ah – Découdrais," he pronounced, smirking slightly at the blatantly French name, "what talents of yours make you such a lure in the kitchen?"

She removed her sunshades, the reason for them clearly moot, and brought a pair of intelligent, deep-chocolate eyes to the forefront. Landa steeled them with his own navy gaze.

"I can make strudel," she said clearly, and he thought that perhaps she was not quite the average, replaceable, French belle.

* * *

The other officers, after gaping at the spectacle but were met with Landa's look, scattered like mice after discovering the cat's return, and left the quite mismatched pair alone on one of France's most barren, coldest streets.

Landa, always one to have something in his hand, something to overpower his opponent or combatant, kept Mischa's papers in their carefully folded state between his fingers. He watched her with open contemplation for a moment, then lapsed quickly into a superficial smile. She had seen that smile before – in the restaurant, with Shosanna as he intimidated her into scared silence, and also with his inferiors, as she'd observed during her first meeting with him. It chilled her insides, yes, but it also made her wonder what he was truly thinking. _That _was fascinating.

"Colonel Landa," she began, and he raised a brow.

"You are aware of my name and title?" he said with an impressed candour. "I wasn't aware of my popularity. Certainly, the moniker 'Jew Hunter' has become popular, but –"

She wanted to tell him not to flatter himself, but put it in a more civilized manner. After all, she could clearly see his pistol. "I overheard one of your men referring to you as Herr Colonel, and another as Landa. It's a matter of putting two and two together."

He pursed his lips, then shrugged. "I agree," he smiled. "Excellent observatory skills, especially for one so… disadvantaged."

Mischa took up arms in reaction to the word. It was purely a handicap as seen by the current government, but she was proud of who she was, how strong and independent it had made her.

"Perhaps," she intoned instead, jaw wound tighter than she would have liked him to see. His right eye squinted just a tad.

"So," he continued, falling into step with her as she attempted a smooth walk away, "what brings you to this lovely region of Nazi-occupied France?"

She didn't answer at first, partly out of confusion – why an S.S. officer was taking the time to speak with her, regardless of her falsified papers, was beyond her – and partly because, though they were 'alone,' they were not totally isolated. Nazi cars were still lined up and down the street, waiting for an order. "I… live here," she said finally, one eye on the fleet of dark cars.

He'd followed her gaze, but quickly returned it to her face. "Does the presence of the officers disturb you, Mademoiselle?"

Her head snapped back. "No, not at all," she said, just a bit too quickly. His eye squinted again, this time in a more pronounced way.

"Are you sure?" he asked her, sentimentality in his tone, honeying the words in a suspicious rather than comforting way. "I can order them away, you know."

"Herr Colonel," she said, ignoring the effort, "with all due respect, I would like to inquire as to why you're wasting your time with me, rather than –"

"Oh, my investigation is complete," he said dismissively. "It's only a matter of apprehending the criminals."

Her gaze narrowed. Either the criminals were ridiculously easy to catch, or he was lying. Or, judging by the number of uncomfortable Nazis across the street, he was simply drunk on his amassed influence and power. None of those reasons explained why on earth he would want to spend time with her. There had to be some other angle.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" she tried. He smiled, revealing nothing.

"You ask many questions, Mademoiselle, for an enemy of the state," said Landa, his expression growing hard even as his voice remained light.

Mischa froze, her countenance growing taut as well. "Sir –"

"Hermann," said Landa loudly, beckoning one of the soldiers with a finger, gaze pasted onto hers without an inch of give, "come here."

He was accosted by one of the young officers that had been waiting patiently for him to finish. "Escort this young lady to her home. Do not deviate from her usual routine, and should you be questioned on the way, simply say it is a matter of the state and is not to be divulged."

The officer took one look at her, paled, then looked back at his commanding officer, who merely turned his gaze to the young man and then back to the young woman.

"Mademoiselle Découdrais," he murmured, kissing her hand, "_auf wiedersehen_. I assume you know that much German? Or do you speak it with an English accent as well?"

Her lips parted, and, triumphant, Landa smiled. The officer saluted him just before Landa's abrupt departure, and then, looked expectantly at Mischa.

"Mademoiselle?" he said quietly.

"Ah… _oui_," she said, barely choking out the reply, flustered for one of the only times in her young adult life, and allowed herself to be escorted down the suddenly broiling street.

* * *

**Tension builds. Thanks for reading :D**

**Also, a special thank you to those anonymous individuals, Leena and Guest, for the sweet reviews :) I apologize for not recognizing you sooner!**

**- dp**


	4. Performance

Disclaimer: I do not own _Inglourious Basterds._

**Story of the Waitress**

**Chapter 4: Performance**

"Mademoiselle Mimieux," said Francesca Mondino, sometime after the hall had been masqueraded in traditional Nazi colours and symbols. Shosanna didn't like to go into the lobby now, for her hatred of all of it. But it was a necessary evil, one she would have to face to be able to finally get her revenge. However, because her office was so small, and her clientele list so large for one order, she found herself in constant bombardment of requests.

"_Oui_," said Shosanna, not quite paying attention. Her gaze and focus was on the monumental task that lay ahead. Everything had to go off without a hitch, or she would find herself facing death – her and Marcel. Though she had not breathed a word of her plans to Mischa, the other girl was far too intelligent to not notice (she was quite like Landa in that way, which was quite terrifying) she had suggested that Mischa stay far away from the theatre because of the number of Nazis (not quite so willing to let her live) and secretly, so Mischa could survive and pass on the story.

Shosanna had no doubt that the papers would twist it, perhaps that the Nazi party itself would crush the news and proceed as planned. Shosanna had written a letter and asked Mischa to keep it in case that should ever occur. Mischa had at first refused to do so, claiming that she would be as unseen to the crowd as Marcel and so there was no point, but Shosanna had to take all precautions.

"May I take a moment of your time, _belle_?"

At the word 'belle,' Shosanna grew both guarded and interested. "What is it, Madame Mondino?"

"Mademoiselle," corrected the older woman. "Joseph is not interested in marriage. Neither am I, for that matter."

"I see," said Shosanna, though she really didn't. Given the chance to marry her, Marcel would have no trouble saying no – neither would she. But to each her own, she supposed. "How may I help you?"

"We have a bit of a technical problem," admitted Francesca, adjusting her fur-lined coat with an apologetic smile. "Joseph has asked me to come in as he is busy preparing Fredrick for the premiere."

"Fine," said Shosanna quickly. "What has happened?"

"There are not enough cigarette girls," said the other woman, somewhat sheepishly, "and Joseph would like exactly eighteen, for the numeric letters of der Führer's name."

"Are you asking me to perform as a cigarette girl?" questioned Shosanna. "I'm afraid that it won't be –"

"No, no, nothing like that," said Francesca, laughing slightly. "Perhaps if you could spare a friend or colleague – just one young woman would be most helpful."

Immediately, Shosanna thought of Mischa, who was likely sitting at home, worried, terrified, fingering the letter she had been instructed to keep. "Are there any restrictions?" she asked subtly. Francesca tilted her head forward, nodded once as if in understanding, and replied in the negative.

"May I then suggest Mischa Découdrais?"

Francesca Mondino brightened. "The lovely coloured girl," she said, as if to justify the reason for having one at a Nazi soiree. Shosanna almost needed verification. But in this way, Mischa would get to spend the time she so needed to, keeping Shosanna company and assisting Marcel with the reels, and with more than enough time to spare, would be escorted out. It worked well for all of them. "Yes, she will work perfectly. Eighteen are only needed until der Führer arrives."

"_Fantastique_," said Shosanna, smiling tightly. Francesca returned it genuinely.

"I shall notify Joseph," continued the older woman. "Thank you, darling."

"You're welcome," replied Shosanna, an absent tone to her voice.

* * *

Of course Mischa was happy to hear that she would be able to help, in some small way, and would at least have the ability to keep an eye on both Marcel and Shosanna as they attempted to fulfill a most dangerous aspiration. As she donned the tight black dress, blouse in shades of red to preserve her modesty, and adjusted the netted cap over her dark hair, she wondered about the older Nazi officer she had both the pleasure and displeasure of meeting. He would certainly be present tonight, at one of the most auspicious gatherings of Nazis and S.S. soldiers since its conception long before any of them were born.

He was the only person she had met that could twist words as well as she could. Perhaps, if she only admitted it to herself, even _better _than she could.

They had been bantering back and forth, showcasing their individual talents while marvelling at the dexterity and extent of each other's. Being the age that he was, it was almost inevitable that Colonel Hans Landa would be far more manipulative than she, but he was allowing her to equalize herself with him, and it was surprisingly alluring. Neither had made their intentions known, and at this point, it seemed that neither of them had any intentions aside from mutual preening. She needed someone who was her intellectual equal, and he simply required a challenge.

Red lipstick was all the rage these days, perhaps to match with the bloodied fields and pits that were laden with the bodies of people who had naively and unnecessarily sacrificed themselves for this war, and after seeing how it had destroyed her parents, Hitler's reign and the Allied attempts to thwart his dastardly deeds, Mischa had never let the colour once touch her lips. Instead, she painted a demure pink, perhaps clear, lipstick, to set herself apart from the other women, who had clearly not experienced such extreme loss as the result of World War II.

Shosanna met her in the staircase, not yet dressed, but seeing as she had time to arrange herself, it wasn't troubling.

"You look beautiful," said Shosanna quietly, kissing her friend's cheek. Mischa returned the favour as well as the compliment, for even in tattered trousers, Shosanna was breathtaking. Together, they ascended the stairs to the projection room, where Marcel was already preparing the film reels.

"Mischa," he said with alarm. "What are you doing in here? The soldiers – they are due to arrive at any moment!"

"Marcel," said Shosanna in the loving tone she reserved only for the man she cared for most. "Please, continue with the films. I'll go and make sure everything in the foyer is presentable, and Mischa will begin her duties."

"Don't forget to smile," said Marcel with plain sarcasm. Mischa grinned.

"I'm likely to get shot if I do," she returned. Shosanna took her by the arm and led her out.

* * *

The other cigarette girls were already lined up along the balcony of the foyer, waiting for their first guest. Mischa picked up the last cigarette tray, armed with several small ashtrays as well as matches and cigarettes, for those who preferred the disposable type. As full-blooded German girls, they regarded her with much apprehension and outright disdain.

"Why are you here?" asked one, brazen enough, apparently. Mischa glanced at her, a wisp of a smile at her lips, and took the opportunity to manipulate.

"Same as the rest of you," she replied. "To serve the lovely officers of this country."

"But –"

"Yes, well, my colour does seem to set me apart, but I can assure you that I am here out of obligation," said Mischa offhandedly. "What might your reasons be?"

"Same as yours," snapped the brazen German girl.

"Oh," said Mischa. "I would assume that your motives are not quite so – ah – _virtuous_?"

"Meaning?"

"I am merely drawing a comparison between the accumulated wealth that will soon grace this room and our current attire." Mischa's lips twisted into a smug little smile.

Confusion met her words.

The smile disappeared. If it wasn't clear before, it was certainly obvious now that race correlated not at all with intelligence.

"I assume most of you have slept with one S.S. officer or another, correct?" said Mischa.

The other girls looked scandalized. "I haven't slept with _any _S.S. officers!" snapped the first girl, her red lipstick in a clear overabundance.

"Nazis, then?" said Mischa, mocking. "Or perhaps _der Führer_ himself?"

"You shut up, Negro," hissed the one on the end, who clearly possessed some sort of inferiority complex due to her dark hair colour and olive skin tone. Undoubtedly, her background was that of mixed ethnicity. "Unless you're willing to admit the same."

"Alas," shrugged Mischa, "I cannot. I work with the owner of this lovely theatre, you see, and Dr. Goebbels was in need of one last cigarette girl. Clearly, that shows to what regard he holds the rest of you."

"What – that we're equal to a Negro?"

"Perhaps," smirked Mischa. "That appears to be the implication, no?"

There were gasps and angry whispers. But then, the doors to the hall were opened by nervous-looking butlers, and the Nazi soldiers began to pile in, each dressed in a stylistically appreciable manner, debonair and courteous. She had no doubt that if they were to see her, their entire demeanour would flip on its head. But she wasn't about to give them that opportunity. Instead, while the other girls flitted downstairs like butterflies to the sweetest nectar, or perhaps more crudely, the largest pocketbook, she stayed at the top, watching over the beginning festivities with a wandering eye.

Soon, the entire foyer was filled with men of stature and power, cigarette girls in gaggles around them, hanging onto every word. There were a few who appeared to exist for the job alone, without conversation or a moment to pause, and Mischa thought that she was perhaps the only cigarette girl who was a delicate balance of the two. And yet, she was the only one without a date, a chaperone, a companion.

She stood at the balcony long enough to attract the disapproving stares of a few gentlemen and ladies who sought more free space, and the curious eye of Fredrick Zoller followed her for a moment before he was accosted by several young ladies demanding his autograph, among other things. While Mischa discreetly watched him, trying in some way to ascertain his personality or character, Shosanna appeared and was surprisingly also ignored, despite her appearance. She was wearing that same darkened shade of red as both her choice of clothing and her lipstick, but Mischa knew that it wasn't out of ignorance that she did so. It was for the potential sacrifice she would be making tonight on behalf of the millions who had yet to lose their lives to the cause, as it were.

Shosanna stood at the balcony as she had, surveying the entirety of the hall, before nodding politely to her – only out of notice of the fact that they were not alone – and descended the steps on the left side, gathering the appreciative interests of many men as she did so. Mischa drew a distracted finger across her bottom lip, suddenly aware of inadequacies as to her own appearance, but did not notice that she, too, was garnering positive attention.

Only hers was not dispersed so much as concentrated to one individual, who, as a man who preferred knowing everything and being the most important, thought it best to take the flight of stairs up to the second level, where he could take in all he could before the guest he waited for decided to arrive. During that process, he allowed himself to be distracted by the young woman who was absentmindedly seducing all who took her in with just one finger.

From the way she was dressed, and the number of women he had counted so far in the room who matched the uniform, she was one of eighteen cigarette girls, chosen only because there were none else available and Goebbels, who was peculiarly compulsive about numbers, wanted eighteen. Before der Führer arrived, the Colonel could assume that she would conveniently disappear.

Landa climbed the stairs, keeping his gaze on her but still maintaining a surveillance of his surroundings, and slightly, her head turned. He knew that she was aware of his approach, his gaze, but they were playing their little game, the game which he so enjoyed and which he would play with her often simply because she was a challenge.

Her profile revealed the upturn of her glossy lips, indicating that she, too, agreed with their arrangement.

* * *

"Mademoiselle Découdrais," said Landa. He was in his full military uniform, with every distasteful medal on prominent display. Tonight, as any night or frankly time of day, he was dashing, refined, ever the gentleman. His ironic, twisted little smile was firmly in place, but she quite liked it. He was best suited to it when he wasn't smiling falsely. But instead of taking the opportunity to look at that smile, Mischa took in each of the awards with mere, indistinguishable flicks of the gaze, alternating between his face and his suit.

"Must you be so polite?" she responded, her tone as sweet and becoming as his. As if he could ever forget this girl's remarkable power with words.

"When in the company of a beautiful woman, one must always be polite," he answered smoothly, kissing her hand.

"I see you are far more civilized than your friends," said Mischa, offering him a cigarette. Landa took it and kept his gaze on her, flattering her, while he waited for her to light it. The flame she lit set her dark, sensual gaze on fire, dilating her pupils and giving her demeanour the appearance of a woman without an ounce of inhibition. He blew the first wisps of smoke off to the side, attention-focused, and her eyes dimmed for the slightest second – she was young, after all, and still learning – as she took in the scenery.

"Why don't you share a cigar with me?" he requested. "I despise smoking alone."

"Oh, no, I don't smoke," said Mischa, smiling opulently. He raised a brow.

"Surprising," he replied. "When one considers the company you keep."

Most people would be uncomfortable under his questioning, penetrating gaze, the gaze he used on liars, on people who harboured terrible secrets that he wanted to be privy to, on French families who were hiding Jewish families. He wasn't as surprised as he said he was when she countered the look. Other men would have her arrested for such a brazen gesture, but he quite liked being in the company of someone who was close to being his intellectual equal. Only, of course, as long as she didn't overstep her boundaries.

The song switched, becoming a piano sonata written by a German composer. Mischa's smile was obvious – and lovely.

"Do you know this song?" he asked of her. She looked at him knowingly. He needed to stop forgetting that she didn't care for observable questions.

"Do you?"

"I do," he said. He was supposed to be keeping an eye out for the traitor, but considering that he had not yet heard a buzz of excitement, he could assume, coupled with a glance around the room from the balcony of the lobby, that she was not in the room yet. "But it is very different, is it not?"

"What do you mean?"

"The dynamics… while structured, are not as consistent. The notation is not as clean. The pianist sounds rather like an amateur." He watched her for a reaction. A filament of a smile appeared at her dewy lips.

"You know," she smirked. He smiled. "I'm impressed."

"That is the general consensus," Landa replied irreverently, taking another drag. Her lips parted ever-so-slightly, closed quickly, and he noticed everything. He also noticed that from a position near the corner of the stairs, Emmanuelle Mimieux, as she liked to refer to herself, was paying careful attention to them. From Mademoiselle Découdrais' presence to the hovering Mademoiselle Mimieux, he could adequately assume that the two were acquainted. Interesting.

"But yes," she admitted, "I am not at my best when I am reluctant to play." She had evidently not noticed the presence of a lady in red.

He didn't question her response – rather, her tone and implied statement were enough for him. She was sly, very sly, and intelligent. But as a coloured girl, he didn't expect her to be in favour of a Nazi government.

"I see."

"But enough of that talk." She stood straight, smoothed the rayon of her almost indecently short skirt. "I've heard that the Führer himself will be here, and as a coloured cigarette girl, I have been asked to leave."

"Ah," he replied. "Understandable."

"Are you waiting for someone, Colonel Landa?"

She was looking at him expectantly when he turned back to her, one hand on a rayon-clad hip.

"Waiting?" he answered. "Not quite – why?"

"Your gaze has been rather predictably flicking to the door."

"And yours," he said wryly, "to my medals."

"I see," she said, mimicking his earlier statement. "Perhaps we have both been less than honest with our mutual forthcomings."

He dropped the cigarette in the ashtray she carried. At once, they were a guest and waitress.

"Excuse me, Colonel Landa," said Mademoiselle Découdrais. Any odd observer – for example, Shosanna Dreyfus, who was intensely curious as to the conversation her family's killer and her good friend was having – would assume that the discussion the two had shared was of a professional nature, without any real content, and for all intents and purposes, it was. Landa exercised his skills in flattery and deception, while Mischa was aloof and alluring all at once.

The idea that, within a few moments, Mischa Découdrais would get the upper hand in their little banter and finally – _finally – _drive Colonel Hans Landa from his place of manipulative ease to that of his victims – uncomfortable, frustrated, angry – was hardly fathomable.

Let alone the idea that he would transfer those intermittent frustrations to one Bridget von Hammersmark in a way that was so unlike his usual meticulous methods.

* * *

**Some interesting exchanges coming up soon... until next Monday ;D**


	5. Privacy

Disclaimer: I do not own _Inglourious Basterds._

**Story of the Waitress**

**Chapter 5: Privacy**

After joining Shosanna for a quick conversation and last-minute motivator, Mischa informed her friend that she would be leaving just as soon as she could change out of the tight costume she had donned, and wished the vengeful young woman luck with the rest of the premiere. Shosanna had still not divulged the murder she planned to commit, but out of respect, Mischa had not broached the topic.

Instead, for Shosanna's sake, she hoped that everything went to plan and every last Nazi in the room was obliterated beyond oblivion, burned beyond recognition, and that Shosanna would finally be able to sleep at night. Marcel too, who, as Shosanna's love, bore much of her grief.

Goebbels, from the lobby, gave her the evil eye, which only propelled her forward. After all, the man was second in command to Hitler. In a restaurant, where he was out of his comfort zone, she had a fair amount of power, but here, in Nazi territory, he could have her removed, arrested, shot on the spot if he wanted. Instead of triumphantly traipsing down one of the two spiralling staircases in the main lobby, she took the side steps, which were hidden by a narrow wall and carpeted in nothing but hard, dirtied concrete.

She looked both ways and behind before venturing out of the staircase hallway to the main corridor, where Shosanna had hidden her office away. Upon finding the coast to be clear, Mischa knocked politely and then entered, silent, with the buzz of conversation still loud and ambiguous.

The room was dark, dimly lit by a pair of torches. Shosanna had once told her that it soothed her psyche and allowed her to work more comfortably than harsh, blinding lights would have. No attempts had been made to change its appearance: books were on shelves, on the desk, on the ground, and many of them had pages torn out of them. Shosanna was perfectly sweet and kind, but she was terrible at housekeeping. That was why she hired help for maintenance in the rest of the theatre, so that she, at least, would have one chaotic place to herself while everywhere else remained spotless. Mischa could understand the feeling.

Unlike their other encounters, which consisted of lighthearted, suggestive banter, clever puns, witty remarks, Landa could see that the girl had grown impatient. The cigarette boxes clattered to the ground, creating a mess of ashes and ultimately destroying the short, ingenious message Landa had left behind when he disposed of his cigar.

Mischa removed the blouse that protected her modesty, and though it did some to cover her supposedly undesirable skin, the open back of the remaining dress was not nearly enough. She had been planning to come to this room anyway, to change before making a quick exit. Without looking, she locked the door; she had been inside this room enough times to know how it worked.

Landa, who stood with perfect, ramrod posture near the desk, smiled with closed lips. She knew he had filed that tidbit of information away.

They surveyed each other with a cutting silence. Each had a primary objective in mind, with an unlikely secondary stuck firmly in the passenger seat.

"Mademoiselle Découdrais," said Landa quietly. "You have proved yourself to be far more intelligent than I anticipated."

"Not intelligent enough," she said in response. The conversation they had shared not five minutes before, in the public lobby, had been contaminated with a mutual realization, the mask of appearances and societal expectations having slipped. "You know, don't you?"

"What do I know?" he asked of her.

She breathed harshly. "The truth."

He was quiet for a minute, somewhat pensive, and then he lifted one shoulder. "Had she been less unassuming, perhaps a better actress, you and Shosanna might have been convincing. But she gave herself away, did she not?"

"You killed her family," said Mischa, somewhat bitterly. "Her fear is understandable."

"As is yours." He took a seat in one of two chairs sitting in an opposing manner. "Have a seat," he beckoned.

"I would prefer to stand," said Mischa, lingering near the door, slightly bruised by his offhanded comment of her fear, "Herr Colonel."

The way she controlled her emotions was quite remarkable, for someone who showed so much obvious care for others. Shosanna Dreyfus had watched over them in the lobby out of care, yes, but her primary motive was entirely unrelated. Upon the realization of what that was, Landa made sure to tailor his plans in a similar fashion. After this short exchange, he would tie up the loose ends in that particular situation.

"Do you smell something?" he queried, lifting his nose to the air. Her eyes narrowed, but she responded negatively.

"No, I don't," was her stiff answer.

"It's a strange perfume," he mused falsely. "There is something floral there, yes, but overpowering it is a raw, earthy scent. I cannot believe that you don't smell it."

Mischa shook her head. Now, she was witnessing first-hand how he played with his victims, made them uncomfortable and brought about nervous sweats. She was suddenly gripped with a fear that was not motivated by the thought of being found out or even killed by Landa.

"But in such a dark, heated room, in the company of a person one found sexually attractive, certain... responses would be expected, would they not? Perhaps encouraged?" said Landa, colloquially, theoretically.

Her lips tightened, but she did not reply to his brazen implication.

Over her shoulder, Landa looked at the clock. Not much time, unfortunately. It was a pity that this goal was not a priority – at least tertiary on his list. Contrary to many men his age, he was not ruled by regions unimportant when compared to the brain. He prided himself most on his wit, intelligence and deductive abilities. For example, young Mischa give the impression that she was an experienced bedfellow, but he could reasonably assume that if he were to bend her over the desk, she would kick, shout and scream, unfamiliar with the territory. His conquests were many and varied, courtesy of his way with words, and both factors contributed to a fair analysis of women and their behaviour in the bedroom, or as it appeared, office.

He clasped his hands together and offered her a knowing lift of the brow. "Mademoiselle Découdrais," he said, with even composure. "There is no question that you are wet."

Mischa's jaw tightened. Out of instinct, her thighs pressed together, but in the short dress, the movement was clearly visible. One side of his mouth shifted when he saw it.

"You disgust me," she said with sheer honesty.

"Do I?" he answered, shifting the chair aside to approach her. The hand that touched her was not harsh or discordant, but smooth, comforting. He stroked her cheek, then her shoulder and down her arm to grip her fingers, her clammy, nervous fingers. His hand lifted hers to his mouth for a polite kiss.

The other dropped one of her dress straps.

He was a smooth operator, very compelling and clearly sure of himself. One side of him, much like the delicate movements of his hand, was mesmeric and courteous, while the other – the fingers on her dress straps – lurked in the background, a snarky, selfish, dark side that simmered with evil intent. Mischa didn't know if he was doing this for a greater purpose or something a little closer to home.

"Is that how you make love?" she asked him, quiet. "Gently?"

"That is how women favour it, yes," he smiled, placing a delicate kiss at her neck. "Unless you prefer _this._"

And so, he reached up, underneath her short dress, and cupped the base of her underwear with a harsh hand, directing jolts of surprised arousal through her shocked system. Her head knocked backward against the door, and finally, the girl looked at him with the first real, raw expression with which she had ever regarded him: fear.

He had been waiting for that look.

* * *

Mischa found herself stripped against the door, shocked and wanton, _used. _For all the charisma and charm he displayed with words, he chose to drive sharp, brutal remarks into her brain the entire time he shagged her. And yet, when he did, when he pressed himself against her, pinned her wrists against the hardwood, looked her straight in the – darkened, bare-naked – eyes without a single waver, she knew he was losing control.

The conquests he spoke of were useless now. The conquests he spoke of were _proper_ women, ladylike women from Germany and Austria, approved by _der F__ü__hrer_ and overwhelmingly beautiful. When he took them to bed, it was in a _bed _and after an appropriate courting period. Mischa was the exception, and whether it was a compliment or insult, she was unsure.

He fucked her with purpose, with all the harshness, expletives, and violence that he couldn't use with the other women. In that way, she was better than them. She experienced the real Colonel Landa, the angry, frustrated, tightly-wound Landa, the man who wanted control and power and thus enacted it by way of probing questions, steadily uncomfortable interrogations, and precise, measured directives.

She didn't dare close her eyes.

And when it was all over, when she was layered in his cologne and her sweat, when he let her go, let her collapse to the floor, and told her to leave, she knew who had really taken control.

Landa refused to look at her because of it.

* * *

Once he let his mask slip, when he was able to spend himself of all the anger and frustration he had built up over the fifty years he had been in control, Landa found that he quite liked chaos. He left the office the way it was after she left, with her bare footprints in the ashes she'd scattered, the scent of her arousal, her sweat and her perfume, breathed it all in before he composed himself, took to the balcony, and located Bridget von Hammersmark. He dangled the truths of the three Basterds disguised as Italian men in front of them, laughed loudly at the outrageous lies von Hammersmark had the nerve to tell him, and, after deeming it prudent to excuse himself, took her to the room and lost control once more.

This time, he took the violence to an inexplicably murderous level, where levied instead was the hatred of a treasonous woman rather than a tempting girl.

He hated the two women in different ways. Mademoiselle Découdrais was highly intelligent, skilled, competent, but still young. But she was, in many ways, a perfect complement to him. Fraulein von Hammersmark was mature, dignified, distinguished in German culture, but she was tedious, boring. Both were charming, but both could be toppled from their respective pillars. And now that Fraulein von Hammersmark was dead, her angelic face and enviable body wasted and lifeless, he hated Découdrais more.

Because if he were to kill her, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

* * *

Landa was not so able to predict the fallout of his plans or his promises, at least when confronted with the ambiguities of World War II. He was able to broker a deal with the Inglourious Basterds, yes, but when things played out, especially considering Lieutenant Aldo Raine's tendency to work off-the-cuff, the Colonel would face an end to his career as a 'Jew Hunter' with a surprising promise-break and a painful and debilitating scar.

With the radio operator, whose name escaped Landa, dead on the ground, and himself in agony, pain spilling from his forehead to every inch of his face as blood spilled into the grass, he found himself without control again. By now, however, he wasn't of sound mind to examine whether or not he had regained control after what had happened in the office of Shosanna Dreyfus alias Emmanuelle Mimieux.

The Allies took far too long with their arrival, and when they finally arrived, half berating Raine for his handiwork and half smirking at the incisions on his forehead, which he had an idea about despite his inability to see them, he was bandaged and thrown into the back of a truck with handcuffs holding him up. By then, of course, he'd succumbed to the throbbing ache.

* * *

And then, time moved quickly.

He was granted immunity from arrest, for his participation in ending World War II, but his name was not disclosed to the public. Reluctantly, the United States government provided him with the land in Nantucket he so desired, freedom from future persecution, and a generous military pension. Aldo Raine didn't try to hurt him again, but with the mark – the swastika, as he had seen in the mirror – there was little more he could do barring outright murder. As that was a period before successful cosmetic surgery, even with the money he had at his disposal, Landa could do nothing about the telling scar that had been left behind, and so, he became a recluse who was known in the community for his excessive use of hats.

Mischa Découdrais learned of her friends' fate when she returned to the cinema and found it burnt to the ground without a single survivor. She continued her work at Maxium's during the time she spent mourning, only because she knew with their sacrifice came freedom for millions of innocent people and the sparing of lives that would otherwise have been lost in war, camps, or homes. Without the steady Nazi clientele, however, Madame Broussard was forced to close down Maxium's. Its previous customers had fled or been wiped out by the War and could not hold up the restaurant for very long.

Without a job, Mischa was left to traipse through what remained of France, its surrounding Belgium, Germany, and others, never finding work and always ending up in a herd of unemployed individuals just like her, all in need of work and many willing to do the barest.

* * *

A visit from Madame Broussard who, too, was in need of steady employment, spoke of America.

"Boundless opportunities," she raved. "Especially for young ones."

Mischa noticed how vague the statement was. There was doubt that even industrially advanced America would be rid of the crippling prejudice that had fuelled the preceding War.

"And what of people like me?" she asked quietly.

Madame had the grace to look ashamed. "I – I am not sure, Mischa."

* * *

**One last chapter after this! Hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading :D**


	6. Perjury

Disclaimer: I do not own _Inglourious Basterds. _

**Story of the Waitress**

**Chapter 6: Perjury**

His new life wasn't much, but it was idyllic enough to distract him from the hell he had been through just an ocean away.

With his winnings, gracefully bestowed by the United States government, Landa could sit back and sip wine, eat strudel and perhaps afford the company of a lovely woman every once in a while. As it was, however, the mark upon his forehead was a deterrent to any companion he might have gained, even with his charismatic demeanour.

He grew reclusive, eventually, because of this, and was known throughout the extravagant community as a man who was prone to wearing hats, though there wasn't a soul who knew why.

* * *

It was impossible for Mischa to settle in a country only just recovering from a land-ripping war (and in the throes of a racial conflict), and so she found herself in its kinder neighbour, where people of her skin congregated and celebrated their bare freedom.

She returned to her roots as a waitress and part-time cook, and realized that here, she wasn't so much scorned as admired for the dark beauty of her features. But as lovely and charming as her new companions were, none quite held the intellectual stamina that had so far been triumphed by one S.S. officer.

Separated by a national border, and unable to leave their surroundings, Mischa and the former Colonel had no opportunities to meet; that was, until a small but explosive incident led the formerly dominant Landa to recede into the northern arms of a vast nation and hide.

* * *

The reputation Landa ordered be spread by the U.S. government lasted as long as it took for a young boy to notice, due to his diminutive height, the swastika that the former S.S. officer kept hidden underneath his cap.

"What's that, mister?" he asked, and Landa found himself a target.

* * *

An attack on his house in the middle of the night, a drag outside in nothing but his nightclothes, and a near-beating at the hands of some angry and vengeful Jewish neighbours led to some arrests but more noticeably, Landa's relocation. He didn't protest, though the thought of his lovely Nantucket mansion serving some other family saddened him.

When presented with the fact that his very telling scar would brand him a Nazi no matter where he resided, the government was left with a dilemma. In the wake of the many other situations, however, Landa's habitation was not so important.

A simple phone call to the Canadians and he was settled in a small house in the outskirts of a developing New Brunswick town. The arrangements were made with great reluctance on both sides, but if anything, the honouring of a pact was most important. After all, Landa _had _helped end the most gruesome war, arguably, that had ever befallen the human race.

With the gentle reminder of his fate should he return to the States for a more affluent home, Landa was suddenly quite comfortable with the bungalow and small garden. And here, his penchant for hats was not so strange.

Besides, the number of federal officers that swarmed his new house were attracting attention in ways that reminded him quite terrifyingly of his time in Nantucket.

* * *

Without a servant to make him his desired strudel, Landa didn't have a choice but to venture into town for supplies. His safety was secured with the compromise of the luxury he had been afforded in Nantucket; it was times like this that he wouldn't mind risking it for a good German (or even French) pastry.

There was one café in town that claimed to speak both French and English, though he highly doubted the legitimacy of the former considering the number of English-speaking individuals he'd both heard and seen of. It would be entertaining, though, to test their abilities.

"Excuse me," he said in his flawless French, to the host clad in an elegant but spotted uniform. "A table for one, please."

The younger boy looked flabbergasted. "Sorry?"

"I assume you don't understand my words," replied Landa cordially.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I do not speak French," apologized the boy. "Shall I get you –?"

"Fine, go, you imbecile."

The boy darted away and Landa was left at an empty host platform, head slightly bowed, as always, to force the casual glance away from his forehead. This restaurant was casual and so did not expect him to remove his hat, a stipulation he made sure of in every venue he sought out.

"Hello, _monsieur,_" came a husky, familiar female voice.

From his position, he could only see her mocha-skinned hands, which sat in a polite clasp upon the platform. He tilted his hat forward to appraise the rest of the waitress he so acutely recalled, and watched as she did so as well.

"Colonel Landa," said Mischa Découdrais.

* * *

The initial surprise took all of five seconds. After that time, they had elapsed into their regular routine. Mischa showed him to a secluded booth, and he ordered a strudel with coffee.

"We have many strudels," was what she came back with, a cheeky grin upon her lips. "Shall I assume that you prefer raisin to apple?"

"You may assume," he replied, unamused by her dig, "but you are incorrect."

Mischa raised a brow. "Very well."

She walked away with none of the fanfare he would expect of someone who knew of her most prized assets.

* * *

"I can take care of this one myself," said Mischa, a little breathless to the trained ear. Alas, such an ear was outside, waiting for a delicious pastry.

"It's all yours," grinned the head cook. "Someone request your strudel specifically?"

"You could say that."

The self-proclaimed strudel chef put together a plate and a mug with jittery hands. Thankfully, the kitchen was a little too busy for anyone to notice any such movements.

* * *

"Thank you," said Landa, and Mischa caught a glimpse of a strange red scar when he lifted his head.

"I see you have been marked," she said, raising a brow.

"And I see you have no qualms about speaking French with an English accent," he replied.

"There aren't many here who speak French," she answered back, smirking slightly, "so it doesn't matter. Unfortunately for you, there also aren't many who support the Nazis."

He leaned back, strudel untouched, coffee cooling.

"I assume it's the work of some Basterds…"

"And _I _assume that you are paid by the hour," said Landa, sounding a little snippier than usual. She supposed he was still hurting over his war injury.

"Yes, but I am allowed a half hour break," she smiled, resting her chin on open hands.

Landa adjusted his cap. A sign, he knew himself, of one's unease.

"Are you going to eat the strudel?" queried Mischa. "I made it myself, you know."

* * *

This banter was not so much banter as a one-sided interrogation. Landa was no longer the smug, authoritative S.S. officer he had been when the Nazis were in power and people like her subservient to his will. Now that he was in her territory, he had become the submissive. And in that way, he had failed in her view of what had once been a worthy intellectual opponent.

Mischa watched as Landa wolfed down his strudel without a pause to chew properly and tossed back the coffee the way an alcoholic would with a good beer. But when he flipped a few bills on the empty plate and stood to leave, she drew herself up to her full height and spoke into his ear from behind himself.

She waited for him to respond in kind, but instead, he turned and kissed her hand, murmured "Mademoiselle," and showed himself out.

* * *

Landa returned for strudel and a coffee at the precise afternoon time he had initially, continuing for an entire week. He sampled the café's entire array of strudels, all concocted by Mischa, and on the last day, asked for not one, but two sweet cherry strudels. These were special (which he knew) because they were served with whole cherries as adornment as well as the cherry filling. Some had dismissed it as too sweet, but it was Mischa's personal favourite (which he also knew).

The double order made Mischa a tad suspicious – Landa wasn't accompanied by anyone else, as usual, to the café – but she decided to play along.

"Two strudels," she announced, "and one coffee."

"No cherries?" he asked, unabashed about the way his swastika scar was displayed. A misplaced mark, really, for Landa wasn't truly a bigot. Only a murderer.

"It is the middle of winter, Herr Landa," said Mischa. "The supply ran out. We have clementines and a small supply of plums."

Neither of which would complement the sweet cherry filling, a fact of which they were both aware.

"Then I would like to change my order," said Landa.

"Plum strudel?" sighed Mischa, pulling out her writing pad.

"Hold the strudel."

His smirk was back.

* * *

The plums were packaged carefully in a takeout bag, but no one complained about the loss of ingredients when Landa paid generously for them.

"Would you mind if I left early?" Mischa asked her supervisor.

"But the day's just started," he protested.

So had church, and there wasn't a soul who would dare to visit the café until late afternoon.

* * *

There was no way to justify this relationship to anyone. He was a murderer and worse, a murderer on the side of the Nazis. If not that, he was self-serving and intelligent in a way that was almost sickening. Up until the end of the War, he had worn his uniform with pride, and though he cowered in this new country, it was only out of fear for his life.

But when he fed her the plums and watched her lips redden like the cherries he would've used and stripped off her clothes and made her ask him in her French-with-an-English-accent, he replaced the need for words. It was the only time when words were not enough.

He was a different person when he wasn't speaking. When he wasn't in control.

* * *

"Do you still have your uniform?" she asked him, still underneath his sheets.

He was on the opposite side of the room, watching her from over his coffee. "No," he answered. "Stipulations dictated that I dispose of my Nazi paraphernalia."

"Interesting choice of words," commented Mischa.

"Theirs," he said.

* * *

They didn't speak of feelings. Nor of how this was going to end.

Instead, they were ruled by implications and figurative speech, metaphors and suggestive glances.

* * *

"You know," she admitted eventually, "my name isn't really Mischa."

"Really?" he said, blowing the smoke out of his pipe. "I never would have guessed."

* * *

It wasn't long before her friends at the café began to ask questions. Not only about the gentleman she was seeing, but why, exactly, she was filching fruit from the kitchen and leaving behind bits of her paycheque. Why she suddenly was unavailable for shifts occurring at a certain period of the afternoon. Why there was a flush to her cheeks that wasn't so much from the cold winter air as a naughty rendezvous (in which a few of them were self-taught experts).

Why Mischa looked as though she might be falling in love.

* * *

There wasn't anyone with whom Landa could hash this out (nor was there anyone he particularly cared to speak with about something as inane as _feelings_). Instead, he spent long stretches of time (the time he didn't spend with Mischa) lying on a couch or his bed and thinking about everything he didn't quite have the time to think about when he was commanding officers as a detective for the Third Reich.

He supposed that he enjoyed her company because she was as close to his intellectual equal as she could get. If ever she overstepped her boundaries, he had methods in which he could return her. If ever _he _overstepped their boundaries, she did the same. Mischa was not particularly cultured or dignified, but he had never stated that either trait was a requirement in a partner.

Then again, intelligence had never been part of the equation, either.

There had never been an equation at all. He had simply chosen the most beautiful woman out of a crowd, charmed her to the point of desperation, and gently drifted away. Observe, catch, abandon.

He'd only gotten so far as to observe with young Mischa before he realized that he wasn't alone in his little game.

* * *

They shared coffee at a café where there wasn't a chance of harassment. Others glanced, perhaps shared a passing whisper, but nothing beyond casual gossip.

"I won't marry you," said Mischa.

Landa let out a short chuckle.

"Then I suppose it's a good thing that I haven't asked," he answered.

* * *

They didn't do the unconventional thing and share a house while unmarried. Landa's bungalow was devoid of any female presence, except perhaps the seeds of fruit varieties in a garbage bin he made sure to replace every other day. Mischa's flat was sparse as it was, though she did one better and kept a stolen relic from his S.S. days underneath her pillow.

Landa would eventually notice that it had gone missing, but Mischa could simply deny it. She was always very good at denying things.

So was he.

* * *

**END.**

* * *

I think I'm going to end it here, and let your minds travel off in whichever direction they please. There really isn't a good way to end this and have everything work, I don't think. Landa's got history and so does Mischa. They'd mesh as intellectual and sex partners but that's about it. Maybe something could be there romantically, but I don't know if Landa's capable of giving himself away like that. Mischa is, certainly, but Landa's tricky.

Again, I hope he wasn't too OOC. I just thought that scar would have done something to his confidence, at least a little.

Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry for the week-late update, I was just stuck on this ending.

Please leave a review and tell me what you think!


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